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Late August 1817

London

“Morley plans to make an offer,” Dara Brogan exclaimed as she burst into the sitting room overlooking the back garden. She’d

just returned from a luncheon with some of her new friends who were other wives of Members of Parliament. She hadn’t even

bothered to remove her hat. She sank down on the settee beside her older sister, Gwendolyn Lanscarr. “That is all anyone could

talk about. They say he is besotted with you.” Both Lanscarrs spoke with the slightest hint of Ireland to their voices, although

their English and their manners were properly genteel—to a point.

Gwendolyn looked up from the book she had been enjoying until her sister’s interruption and frowned.

Last spring, the Lanscarr sisters, Gwendolyn, Dara, and the youngest, Elise, had gambled everything for a Season in London. The venture had been Dara’s idea. After their father had disappeared and was presumed dead, their cousin Richard had taken over Wiltham, the family estate in County Wicklow, Ireland. He’d not been keen to provide the girls with dowries. However, they were from a good, albeit impoverished, family. They also had looks, intelligence, and youth. Dara claimed they deserved dukes for husbands, and they could certainly snag them. She had been very convincing. After all, the Gunning sisters, who had also been poor Irish beauties, had succeeded fantastically in London during their Season decades ago. They had married some of the most important men of their day.

It was possible it could happen for Lanscarr sisters, or so Dara had argued.

Besides, what choice did they have, other than Gwendolyn sacrificing herself to a marriage with a local squire so they could

have a roof over their heads? Richard had made it clear he would happily hand them over to the first men willing to pay to

take them off his hands.

The most challenging aspect of their venture had been money. London Seasons were expensive. To understand what they needed,

Dara had pored over the papers from London, searching for details and clues. The sisters did have some funds. They had carefully

squirreled away a coin or two without Cousin Richard’s knowledge. Dara had suggested that they take this small hoard of coins

and gamble with it.

This idea was not far-fetched. Their father was a keen gambler. He’d not spent much time with his daughters, but when he was there, he taught them how to play cards. Of the three sisters, Gwendolyn had his talent. She could sense which cards would come up next. Therefore, she was the one, disguised as a widow with a heavy black veil, who had been sent into the Devil’s Hand, a Dublin gaming hall. The goal was to win the three hundred odd pounds needed for a Season.

Gwendolyn had been successful, in large part because of a gentleman named Beckett Steele. He had helped her win the money

when the unscrupulous faro dealer had tried to trick her.

Consequently, the sisters had come to London and conquered Society, just as Dara had hoped.

Dara had married first. Michael Brogan might not be a duke, but he was an important Member of Parliament representing Ireland.

The couple was very much in love.

To everyone’s surprise and delight, Elise married the duke. The wedding had only been two weeks ago, and now Elise and her

Winderton were visiting Ireland. He’d wanted to see where his love had once lived.

That left Gwendolyn, who, as the unmarried sister, resided under Michael and Dara’s roof, as one must.

“I’m not ready to marry, Dara,” Gwendolyn said.

The corner of Dara’s mouth tightened. “But you are five years older than I am.”

Gwendolyn shrugged. “True. So?” She silently dared her sister to say something about the dangers of Gwendolyn being declared

a spinster.

Dara was wiser than that. “Morley is very handsome and well-liked. You would be a viscountess.”

Except the truth was, Viscount Morley had already asked Gwendolyn for her hand in marriage. He’d done it while the two of them were strolling in Hyde Park the week before.

He had not first spoken to Michael because he’d wisely surmised that Gwendolyn would not appreciate him doing so. He had been

right. She would never understand why her male relatives were allowed by Society to make decisions for her. As Dara had pointed

out, she was six and twenty. She could speak for herself.

And Morley had been grateful he hadn’t approached Michael when Gwendolyn had—tactfully, she thought—refused his offer.

Of course, she hadn’t shared this information with Dara because she didn’t want the argument. Or to be reminded she was six

and twenty. Gwendolyn might be the oldest, but Dara was the force in the family.

Gwendolyn and Elise had learned long ago to dodge topics that would churn up Dara’s meddlesome ways. Refusing an offer from

a viscount was one of those topics.

She rose, closing the book. “I’m to Hatchard’s.” Gwendolyn referred to the circulating library.

“Again? You were there earlier this week.”

“I’ve finished my book.”

“Just this moment?”

“Yes. I need another.” And to escape Dara and her matchmaking talk. Reading was an excellent escape.

“Don’t forget to take Molly with you,” Dara said, as she always said. Molly was the maid. Being chaperoned everywhere was another trial for Gwendolyn. She missed the days when she could walk Wiltham’s green moors and hills without a maid’s shadow.

Before Dara could offer more advice that Gwendolyn didn’t need, she was out of the room and calling for Molly to come down

with her bonnet and gloves. A few minutes later, Gwendolyn and the maid were out the door.

Hatchard’s was not far, and Gwendolyn enjoyed a good stretch of the legs. She smiled, enjoying a little taste of freedom.

The air carried the stirrings of summer’s end and autumn’s beginning.

She also knew that Dara would bring up Morley again. Eventually, Gwendolyn would have to confess she had refused him. Her

sister would just shift her focus and begin the search for someone else for Gwendolyn to marry.

Gwendolyn would resist that suitor as well... because the truth was, she was already in love with someone—Beckett Steele.

She’d fallen for him the night he had helped her win the money she and her sisters had needed. He’d almost kissed her then.

Gwendolyn had wanted him to. Looking back, she wished she had grabbed him by the ears and planted her lips on his mouth.

Instead, she’d been somewhat overwhelmed. It had been a wild night. However, before Mr. Steele’s lips could meet hers, her

sisters had interfered. One of them—Dara or Elise, she never learned which—had clubbed him over the head with a hefty piece

of wood. He had dropped like a bag of sand, and they had been proud of themselves. They believed they had rescued Gwendolyn.

After the clubbing, there was nothing to do but run. Few men were happy being bashed over the head. Furthermore, Gwendolyn

had also been concerned about what Mr. Steele had asked for in payment for his help—a favor. At the time, she’d believed it a rather inappropriate price. She had even attempted

to return the money he had loaned her out of her winnings. He’d refused. He had insisted he preferred a favor.

However, since their arrival in London, Gwendolyn had crossed paths with Mr. Steele several times, and the more she saw him,

the more she realized exactly how attracted she was to him.

He was more than handsome and worldly. He was a mystery. He wove in and out of Society at will, and his name was spoken in

a hushed whisper by both upper and lower classes. She’d come to believe there wasn’t anything he couldn’t do.

She no longer minded owing him that favor. Someday he would ask her for it and expect her to comply. Gwendolyn couldn’t wait.

And if he ever tried to kiss her again, he’d not escape her a second time.

But he’d better act soon. She couldn’t put Dara off forever. Especially if Elise returned to London and joined forces with her. They might sway Gwendolyn. An unmarried woman’s life was a boring one. Other than Hatchard’s and shopping, there was little Gwendolyn could do with just a maid for an escort. The truth was, Gwendolyn wasn’t eager to marry. Her heart longed for adventure and challenges like the characters in her favorite novels. She didn’t want the life of a gentlewoman where the biggest thrill was mar riage, followed by children, old age, and death. Her sisters might find this path suitable; Gwendolyn did not.

Most of all, along with adventure, Gwendolyn wanted Mr. Steele. It was that simple. No other man would do. She admired the

way he determined his own destiny. She envied his freedom to do as he pleased. Gwendolyn was perfectly at peace being alone,

but if she was to share her life, then she wanted someone exciting .

And if Dara knew what her oldest sister was thinking, she would lock Gwendolyn up in a trunk and ship her back to Ireland.

Therefore, if ever there was a woman needing a good book to hold the problems of life at bay, it was Gwendolyn. She prayed

Hatchard’s had that Maria Edgeworth novel that had been sent to a subscriber in the country several months ago. She had been

impatiently waiting for its return. She couldn’t understand why they hadn’t just purchased another copy for their patrons.

If the Edgeworth wasn’t there, she might seek out something on mythology. She adored the stories of the gods.

She left Molly outside on a bench by the front door. Gwendolyn delighted in the feel of paper and the smell of glue and bindings

and could spend hours asking the clerks to take books down for her to consider. She did not want Molly’s sighs of boredom

to interfere with her pleasure.

“Hello, Mr. Peters,” she sang out as she entered the shop. There were several clerks busy with customers and fussing with books behind the counters. However, Mr. Peters always rushed to see to her needs, and she liked the extra attention.

“Miss Lanscarr, what a pleasure.” Mr. Peters was around her age. He had prominent ears that turned bright pink whenever she

addressed him. Sometimes, to his great embarrassment, his voice would crack. “I was just thinking of sending you a note.”

“Really? Why?”

“We have a book here with your name on it.” He pointed to a ledger where a record of requests was kept.

“Has the Edgeworth finally come in?” She moved expectantly to the counter. “I seem to have been waiting for it forever.”

“It is a popular novel and, unfortunately, it has not been returned yet. Never fear, I’m watching for it for you. However, here is the other one you requested.” He turned and

took a slim volume off a shelf.

“I’ve made no other requests,” Gwendolyn said, confused.

“It has your name on it. Of course, if there is a mistake, I can put it back—”

“No, no, let me see it,” Gwendolyn said, holding out her hand. “Perhaps I asked for something and forgot. That is possible.”

He smiled as if he didn’t believe she could ever make a mistake, and as he did so, he noticed the title of the book. “Oh—” He paused. “I—I just noticed the name of this book. Someone else set it aside for you. I don’t believe this is proper reading for a gently reared woman.”

Proper reading? A chill of outrage went down her spine. No one supervised her reading, especially not the milk-and-water Mr.

Peters. “Whatever do you mean?” she asked, too sweetly.

He turned the book around for her to read the title. “It’s Dante’s Inferno .”

“Is it in the original Italian?” she queried haughtily.

Mr. Peters appeared confused. He shook his head. “It is the Boyd.”

“I have not read that one.”

“Have you read the Italian?”

Gwendolyn could not read Italian. “Of course.” She waved her flat hand impatiently, showing she expected the book.

His brow furrowed in concern as if she had fallen a notch in his estimation. She could live with that.

He handed the book over and then, his own back stiff, he busied himself behind the counter.

Gwendolyn didn’t give a care. There were other clerks who could check the book out for her. Instead, she moved toward the

center of the room. She knew she hadn’t requested it.

She opened the book. A calling card had been placed between its pages. It fluttered to the floor. She quickly picked it up.

On one side was the engraved word Steele .

On the other was a handwritten message addressed to no one.

You will receive an invitation. Accept it. S

Gwendolyn slammed the book shut, the card safely in its pages.

Several of the other patrons gave a start as if the sound had startled them. She smiled, pretended all was normal, and yet

her heart was racing.

He was ready to claim the favor she owed him. She was certain of it.

Gwendolyn checked out the book and left the circulating library, the bell on the door jangling merrily with her departure.

Her maid, Molly, was slumped over as if having a little nap. Gwendolyn tapped her shoulder. Molly jumped and looked up wildly.

“You are done, Miss Gwendolyn? That didn’t take long. You are usually in there much longer.”

“Come along, Molly, hurry. We must be home as soon as possible.” She set off down the street.

“Is there something the matter, Miss Gwendolyn?” the maid said in confusion and then skipped a step or two to catch up. “Is

there a reason to hurry?”

“Yes,” Gwendolyn assured her without bothering to turn around or slow her step. The very best sort of reason , she told herself. She was going to see Mr. Steele again.

And soon.

That thought alone was enough to put Mercury’s wings to her feet.

Jem Wagner made a low whistle of appreciation. “She’s a lovely one,” he said, turning to look up at Beck, who leaned against the building behind him.

They stood at the corner of Sackville Street, where they could watch Hatchard’s front door. Beck grunted a response to Wagner’s

comment. He wasn’t so much interested in Gwendolyn’s looks as her reaction to his message. She held the book, and there was

a haste in her step. Good.

He wondered what she thought of his choice of book. He’d been surprised to learn of Gwendolyn’s eclectic taste in reading.

She enjoyed all of the usual fare gentlewomen favored, but also philosophy, religious treatises, histories, and, what seemed

to be her favorite, travelers’ journals. It was as if she dreamed of faraway places.

When Beck didn’t answer immediately, Wagner said with the easy familiarity of comrades who had fought together, “Ah, come

now, Major. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed her looks. I won’t believe you if you do.”

Beck didn’t reply. Instead, he turned and began walking down the street. His plan was now in motion.

“You don’t feel something? Lovely lass like that one? Not even a tingle in the dingle?” Wagner fell into step behind him.

He was shorter than Beck’s six feet and three inches and a bit bandy-legged. His eyes perpetually squinted whether it was

the dark of night or the light of day. He also had a hooked nose that could smell a Frenchman or trouble. In short, he was

a good man to have by one’s side.

“Dingle?” Beck sneered at the word.

“Dangle?” Wagner suggested helpfully. “Call it whatever you wish, but you can’t tell me you aren’t interested. You were watching her more intently than you ever watched Soult’s calvary approach.”

“I’m beginning to regret asking for your help,” Beck muttered, side-stepping a sweating clerk carrying a heavy wooden box,

who wasn’t paying attention to where he was going.

Wagner had left the military when Beck had, after Waterloo. He’d claimed he wished to enjoy the remaining years of his life

with his wife, Lucy, and their four children on a yeoman’s share in Sussex. However, when Beck had reached out to him for

help with his plan, Wagner had not hesitated to join him.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to annoy Beck in that way good friends could.

“I don’t know why you aren’t interested in her looks,” Wagner continued conversationally. “If I didn’t have Lucy, I’d be right

on that.”

Beck didn’t respond but concentrated on crossing the street’s heavy traffic.

“Do you know what your problem is?” Wagner asked.

“I suppose you will tell me,” Beck grumbled.

“I will. It is that general’s daughter. What was her name?” Wagner pretended to search his memory. “It is the name of a flower.”

Violet Danvers , Beck thought just as Wagner said happily, “I have it—Pansy. Wasn’t that it? General Danvers’s daughter? Pan -seee.” He chuckled over his own pronunciation. “That part I’ll never forget.”

Beck did not correct him. It would just encourage him.

“You are the bravest officer I ever served under, sir, but you are afraid of women.”

Beck flipped around so fast, Wagner almost walked into him. Ignoring the pedestrians who had to flow around them, he said,

“I am not afraid of women.”

Wagner widened his squinty eyes and feigned surprise. “Then what is it, sir? I mean, they practically crawl into your bed,

and still you run.”

“I’m not going to listen to this.” Beck began walking again.

Wagner was at his heels. “Just having my say.”

“You’ve said enough.”

“Not nearly.”

Beck didn’t answer. Wagner always had to have the last word, and an exchange like this could go on for hours. However, there

was one way to change the subject with Wagner. “Fancy a pint?”

“Always.”

They ducked into a corner tavern. The place was busy with the hum of male voices dominating the air. They wove their way through

the crowd and found a table in the corner by a window. Leaving Wagner at the table, Beck went up to call for two ales. He

carried back the tankards and set one down in front of the sergeant.

“When do you start working?” he asked Wagner.

“I travel to Colemore tomorrow. I was hired on as a stable hand.” Colemore was the Marquess of Middlebury’s country estate.

Beck had decided that since Middlebury did not come to London, he would have to take himself to the reclusive lord... however, in consideration of Winstead’s murderous attack, he wasn’t about to announce his presence. No, he had spent months preparing a ruse that had come together because of both luck and determination. Gwendolyn Lanscarr was part of his good luck. In fact, without her, or a crusty old lady named Lady Ellen Orpington, he wouldn’t be able to execute it.

However, he was no fool. In case all went wrong, he wanted Wagner close at hand. For that reason, he’d asked his friend to

find work at Colemore.

“I hear the horses are some of the finest in England,” Wagner said.

“When one has that much money, one has the best of everything.”

“What is this gambit about?” Wagner asked.

“Meeting the Marquess of Middlebury,” Beck said.

“What of the woman at the bookshop?”

“She is the means to an end. The marquess and marchioness host a house party where whist is a serious game. I was hired by

Lady Orpington, one of their usual guests, to find a whist player of uncommon talent to be her partner. That player is Miss

Lanscarr.”

“Oh,” Jem said, and pulled on his nose. “She doesn’t look like a card sharp.”

“She is. An excellent one. And if Lady Orpington approves of her, she will include me as a member of her party when she goes

to Colemore.”

Wagner raised his brows. “I don’t see how all of this will play out, Major, but I’m with you. As to the lady, I don’t think you are as blind to her as you’d have me believe. Otherwise I wouldn’t have teased you.” With that he toasted the air with his drink and drained the tankard dry.

Beck didn’t touch his drink. Bringing Gwendolyn into this plan had been a necessity, but Wagner was right—she did threaten

Beck’s peace of mind. Gwendolyn Lanscarr was forbidden fruit. She made him yearn for what a man like him could not have, just

as Violet had once done.

Gwendolyn had been reared for the life of a gentlewoman. Titled and moneyed men lined up outside her door to woo her. Men

more suitable to her than Beck. He knew because he’d been watching. He couldn’t help himself.

So, Wagner was right. Beck was not blind. If he could have found another woman with Gwendolyn’s intelligence, grace, and skill,

he would have stayed away from her. She was the line he’d dared not cross.

And he would not let himself forget that fact...